“That’s really not the idea, partner. Look, forget it. Let’s just wind things up here then I can get home and hit the sack.”
“No, what do you mean? I really want to know.”
Troulsen let him sweat while he pretended to think about it. Then he said casually, “So, you’ll end up in prison for the rest of your life for double murder, that goes without saying, but I’m sure you’re prepared for that, in one place or another?”
Falkenborg answered gloomily, “Yes, I suppose so.”
“You’d better be. Your biggest problem now is where you end up. Tell me, do you know much about Danish prisons? I mean, have you been convicted before?”
“No, never, and I haven’t killed anyone either.”
“Stop right there! Of course you have, we both know that, but I don’t care what you’ve done with those two bitches. That’s not my business, especially not if they annoyed you, I know what a pain that type can be. Well, forget about that, I’m just the one who brings you in, and the only thing I’m interested in is that you get completely clean. Otherwise I risk the boss getting mad at me, and I have absolutely no desire for that to happen, so you’re going to take a bath, do you follow me?”
“I would like to, but can’t you tell me more about the prisons?”
Troulsen looked at his watch and pretended to consider the suggestion. Then he said, “Andreas, my friend, we can make a deal: you promise to be thorough in the bath, so I don’t get into trouble for delivering you unwashed. Then I can tell you which prisons you should avoid, if the boss even gives you the option. What do you say about that? Something for something.”
Falkenborg accepted, eager to avoid incurring the boss’s anger, it seemed.
After his bath Andreas Falkenborg followed instructions like a lamb and let himself get dressed under expert guidance. Troulsen commented in detail on his choice of clothing and rejected three ties before finally forbidding him from putting one on at all, since it would only be taken away from him in prison. He also got involved in everything from the man’s choice of underwear to his shoes. He gave only the vaguest information about Danish prisons, while stroke by stroke painting a terrifying picture of Konrad Simonsen—the cop any sensible prisoner had best not antagonise. Falkenborg said nervously, “You promised to tell me about the prisons.”
“That will have to wait until we’re in the car, I don’t like being recorded.”
“May I take my cell phone with me? I have the right to a telephone call at the police station.”
“That’s okay, so long as it’s turned off.”
“It is, see for yourself.”
Falkenborg meekly held out his phone.
In the car Troulsen put handcuffs on his prisoner, but placed him in the front passenger seat, although that was not normal practice. He wanted to see the man’s face during their conversation, which he started bluntly as soon as they drove off.
“There are two prisons you should avoid at all costs. You see, there’s an iron-clad pecking order among the cons there, and you’ll come in at the very bottom, partly because you have a tendency to smell, and partly because you’ve killed women. Both are looked down on by the tough nuts and . . . ”
Troulsen continued in the same vein without mercy most of the way to Police Headquarters. Maliciously he told Andreas Falkenborg in detail about how he would be tormented and tortured in prison. That is, if the boss took against him and decided to recommend one of the harsher places. And the lies worked. His prisoner was intimidated.
Although he had an explicit prohibition from Simonsen about doing any definite questioning, Troulsen nevertheless tried, shortly before they arrived. The temptation was simply too great.
“And bear in mind now that the most important thing is not to start sweating with anxiety, because then you’ll smell again and that makes the boss hopping mad. It’s much better to put your cards on the table right away.”
“I’ll try not to sweat.”
The man was already sweating like a pig, but was possibly not aware of it himself. Troulsen continued casually, “By the way, the girl down in Pr?st?, what was her name again? The one who disappeared?”
“Annie.”
“Yes, exactly. Or was that her name . . . are you quite certain? Wasn’t it Lone instead?”
“No, I’m sure, Annie Lindberg.”
“Okay, you would know, so it’s Annie now—where did you bury her?”
“But I haven’t done that.”
“Why drag this out?”
“But it’s the truth, I haven’t done that.”
The man sounded sincere in his own childish, naive way. Troulsen dropped the subject without any real annoyance, knowing full well that Konrad Simonsen would soon be conducting a full-scale interrogation.
CHAPTER 31